The World Has Turned And Left Me Here
by Xx starlight-moon xX
Summary: A collection of unrelated oneshots, with random themes and characters. My first attempt at DW fanfiction. Reviews are love. Rated for my tendency to be dark - you have been warned! Current - The Master.
1. The World Has Turned And Left Me Here

**A / N : This is a new project for me – a collection of Doctor Who oneshots – and it's my first attempt at Doctor Who fanfiction, so reviews would be brilliant, I'd love to know how I'm doing. Also, I don't have the DVDs, so I apologize for any mistakes – please tell me if I make any. That's about it for now . . . Oh – I will accept requests but it might take a while to get around to it, because as I said, I don't have the DVDs yet – they cost something like a hundred euro per boxed set where I am. But feel free to request characters, just be patient! Thanks for reading. **

**This first one is dedicated to GwenxxOwen, as a thank you for reviewing my Harry Potter oneshots. Thanks again!**

_**Rose Tyler (shortly after the events of Journey's End). **_

The first time she met the Doctor, he told her he could feel the world turning.

That was a different Doctor, of course, and a different world, but still . . . . she believed him. She always believed him, though most of the time, she didn't really understand.

Standing in Bad Wolf Bay, she feels it for herself. The sky overhead is grey and the wind is biting. It whips at her hair and tugs at her clothes – a thousand tiny, invisible hands plucking at every inch of her, trying to pull her away. To whisk her off on an adventure, far away . . . she closes her eyes, and turns her face to the sky. So much has happened today, and her head hurts, trying to make sense of it all. Davros, and the Daleks . . . but they don't matter, not really. It isn't the wasted face of Davros that haunts her, or the screams of human beings, innocent people, turned to ash. No. What hurts the most, what confuses and bemuses her the most, is the Doctor. It has always been the Doctor, she thinks wryly. And today is no exception.

Gone. The Doctor – _her _Doctor – is gone again, and yet . . . not gone. Because he's still here, isn't he?

Back at the B&B, with Jackie and Pete and everyone else. She escaped, because she needed time and space to think. Time and space. _Time and Relative Dimension in Space . . . TARDIS. _Even now, when she has laid the ghosts of the past to rest, the word hits her like a kick in the guts. The Tardis is gone, and her Doctor is gone too. She won't see him again, not ever, and she knows it now, really _knows _it, in a way she didn't before.

She knows she should be pleased. After all, she has everything she ever wanted, doesn't she? A human Doctor, one who will stay with her forever, who won't ever leave, and best of all, who will _love _her, and never be afraid to tell her that. She should be pleased. But she isn't, somehow. Because somehow, he doesn't feel real. He isn't _her _Doctor, as silly as it sounds. He might look the same, and act the same, and talk the same, but something is different.

_Her _Doctor would never commit genocide. He couldn't kill a whole race, not even one as despicable as the Daleks. Her Doctor could never settle down, could never stay in one place for long. She doesn't think _her _Doctor could even exist without the Tardis. She's not just a ship to him, she's a living, breathing companion, his oldest companion, and Rose honestly can't picture him without her. The ship is a part of him – he needs her like Rose needs air, and adventure, and excitement – and to seperate them . . . well, it would be like splitting conjoined twins. They might function just fine apart, but there will always be the niggling sense that they ought to be _together. _Because _her_ Doctor – he was a part of the Tardis. All the little things – that theactrical way he had of flinging the doors open, when neither of them knew what they would find on the other side. The soft, crooning note in his voice when the ship made strange stuttering sounds that boded ill for all of them. The way he would run his hand lightly over the battered knobs and levers, his touch as soft as a mother's caress. She had always laughed at him when he did that, but secretly, she loved him for it. Even the way he shied away from that word, the L-word, as though it might burn his tongue. He had never told her, not once, but . . . .

Rose groans. There is so much to think about, now, and she can't make sense of it all. On the edge of her hearing, the waves crash against the shore, and when she digs her trainers into the ground, the sand shifts under her feet. There is so much to think about, so much to puzzle out, that it makes her dizzy. The sky spins above her head, and the sand shifts beneath her feet, and suddenly the world doesn't seem so solid anymore. It is spinning, turning, wobbling beneath her feet . . . and she wonders, then, why she didn't notice before.

"Rose."

She turns around, and there he is, just like before. It takes her a moment to realize he is real, that the wind won't steal him away in the time it takes a dead star to burn out of existence. He looks smaller somehow. Lost and confused, and she realizes he doesn't know where to go from here. He isn't in control anymore. She wonders if that scares him.

So she puts out a hand, and she smiles.

"I can feel the world turning . . . ."


	2. Blink

**A / N : Dedicted to xoxLewrahxox this time, as a thank you for reviewing first! **

**_Sally Sparrow_**

_Blink. _

The wallpaper peels away, like the skin of an onion, and she finds herself staring at foot-high letters.

DUCK SALLY SPARROW. DUCK NOW.

Sally ducks.

_Blink. _

" . . . . wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey . . .._stuff." _The television screen flickers briefly, and he runs a hand through his hair, rumpling it even further. Sally feels a strange, sudden urge to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair. She feels, just for a moment, that if she just put out her hand, the television screen and all the intervening time would melt away, and he would be there. Real. Solid. Touchable. _He could help us, could really help us. He'd know what to do . . . ._Then she blinks, and the moment is gone.

_Blink. _

Sometimes, she wonders if the Weeping Angels ever really left. Sometimes, she thinks one might have escaped its stony prison. Even now, right now, it might be following her. Shadowing her steps, leeching her life away, bit by bit, stealing second after second until . . . . Sally sits bolt upright in bed and shivers. Because that's how it happens, isn't it? Minutes melt into hours, and hours turn into days, and somewhere in between, her life disappears.

_Blink. _

"So what do you think? Oatmeal or magnolia?"

Sally blinks. It is teatime, and they are in the kitchen. Across the foldout table Larry holds up two pieces of card. Asking her opinion.

"So what do you think?"

"I . . . I'm sorry, what?"

He exhales slowly, patiently. "The paint. For the utility room. Oatmeal . . . or magnolia?"

Sally stares at the alphabet spaghetti on her plate, at the soggy jumble of letters, and briefly – just briefly – imagines spelling out a message. _Help me. _Then she blinks, and the moment is gone.

"Magnolia," she says.

_Blink. _

"Mummy, Mummy, look at me!"

Five years have passed, and she knows – she _knows - _it took longer than that, but still . . . she can't shake the feeling that each year took up no more space, in the grand scheme of things, than a heartbeat.

It is springtime, and she doesn't remember winter. Not this winter, anyway. She watches the swallows dip and dive in a clear pale sky, and below them, on the earth, her small son makes paper planes and launches them into the air, carried on a current that can't be seen, only felt. His eyes are the same pale clear blue as the sky - duck-egg blue, an empty, expectant canvas. He smiles at her, his face flushed with pride, and then he blinks.

_Blink. _

"Gran! _Gran!" _

The book – _Alice in Wonderland - _falls from her hand, and then she falls too. She thought, just for a moment, that she saw one, reflected in the glass behind her grand-daughter's blond head. A Weeping Angel.

_Blink. _

It is raining. It was raining then too. She watches the rain wash the windowpanes, saving someone a job. It drums against the glass, a swift tattoo, so much faster than her slowing pulse, and she wonders. What would have happened, if she hadn't chosen to stay with Larry? If she had followed him instead, the _Doctor_ . . . . She sees herself again, distantly. A young girl on a London street, threading her fingers through Larry's. Wondering, even then, if she had made the right choice . . .

She feels a light pressure on her fingertips, and she starts. Larry sits beside her, his pale face drawn tight with worry and his hand curled around hers. Her fingers twitch, and he frowns.

"Stay here," he begs. "Stay with me, please, Sally . . ."

She looks away from him, at the rain falling outside. There is a sound in her mind, half-real, half-imagined – a ticking clock. And at her back, the feel of cold stone. The breath of a Weeping Angel, she imagines, is like a cold breeze in a crypt, dank and rotten–smelling. It chills her to the bone. Her time, she knows, is running out.

_Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff . . . _

She wonders if it will stop. The prickling fear, the creeping feeling of unease. Will it leave her alone, now?

She smiles at Larry. Then she settles back against her pillows.

_Blink. _

**A / N : Odd, I know . . . Reviews? **


	3. Utopia

**A / N : Okay, so crisis temporarily averted! My lovely sister (did I mention she's lovely? Because she is) fixed my computer, though I am still very _very _nervous about it. Because we still couldn't figure out what was actually wrong with it, but it looks like a trojan . . . Anyway, so this one is dedicated to her – even though she doesn't actually watch Doctor Who – as well as to katedoc and Weeping Angel123, my latest lovely reviwers. So there you are! Also, this is a very sad one - remember what I said about my tendancy to be dark? You should see what I mean here. Reviews? **

_**Creet (The little boy in Utopia who tells Martha the skies are made of diamonds). **_

There are no diamonds.

They fly round and round, in endless looping circles, but there is no Utopia. They crash-land back at the silo, an ugly landing, and they discover there is no more Professor Yana either, and no more Chantho. He is sad about that, at first. Creet used to bring the Professor his dinner in the evenings, and he had liked his kind face, and the busy bustling air about him. But there isn't time to be sad, not really. There is work to be done, driving out the Futurekind, again and again, and tending to the wounded, and all the while their food supplies are dwindling, and hope is dwindling too. So Creet does as he has always done, in situations like these – he works. There is so much work to do, and there are never, never enough people to do it all, and there is never, never enough food . . . .

There are no diamonds. Only a bleak cold wasteland, and a crushing blackness, at the end of everything. The universe, he learns, dies not with a bang, but with a whimper. The skies are a heavy black blanket, and the air is thick and choking with dust and ash. Hope dies by degrees, dimming slowly as the stars until suddenly, it is gone. And in the absence of hope, he learns hate.

And then, just like before, when all seems lost _he _comes. Not the Doctor. Not him. But a different man, one with eyes that are sometimes as empty and cold as the skies above them. He shows them a way out, a way to escape the cold, and the dark. It won't be easy, he says. And it isn't. There are experiments, deep in the silo, and because it is all he has ever known, Creet works. He sees so much, and hears so much, that it feels like a monster clawing away inside his mind, and he wants to run away. Cold metal, and cold screams, deep in the dark . . . .

But the Master has promised to save them. And Creet knows – he _knows – _by now, that he shouldn't hope, that nothing ever comes of hope. But he can't help himself. He's only human.

She is human too. The woman, the one the Master brings to see Utopia. She reminds Creet of his mother, with her fair hair and her sweet face, and his heart aches, thinking about her. The Master sees him looking, and he laughs and calls him forward, asks him why. And when Creet tells him, he laughs even harder. "He looks like you, Lucy, doesn't he?" And she nods, her eyes swimming with tears that he doesn't think the Master even sees, and her fingers twitch as if she wants to reach out and touch him, but doesn't dare. But the Master does. He puts out a hand and ruffles Creet's hair, leaning in and lowering his voice, as though confiding a great secret. "You know," he says slowly, "I don't have any children. But you . . . you stupid, hopeful little humans, screaming at the dark . . . sometimes, I think you might be my children. My life's great work," he says, his mouth twisting in a sour, mocking little smile, and Creet is reminded of Professor Yana, long ago. He used to say the Utopia project was his life's great work. Then he blinks, and the moment is gone. "My children," the Master says again, turning the words over in his mouth, tasting them. He seems to like the sound of it. "My children." Lucy shivers.

There are diamonds, in the sky.

The Master calls them stars, and laughs at their stupidity, but Creet – or what used to be Creet – knows better. They are one now, the Toclafane, sharing each other's thoughts and hopes and memories, and he doesn't know which one is him anymore. They are all him, he supposes. They all feel the fierce savage joy of the hunt, and that, he knows, is the legacy of the Futurekind – just one Futurekind, who snuck in somehow and poisoned them all, but they don't care about that now. Not when they can fly and blaze and slice as one. They all feel the thrill of the chase, and the triumphant exhultation that comes at the end of the hunt. And so when Creet, or what used to be Creet, looks up at the night sky, and sees not blackness, but a hundred, a thousand, a million glimmering little points, they all feel his joy.

There are diamonds in the sky, and they have found Utopia.


	4. Medic

_**Wilf (Donna's Grandfather) **_

Wilf has always thought of his grand-daughter as being somewhat like a live grenade. He stirs his tea absent-mindedly, reflecting. He remembers every stage of her life, and the rememberences make him smile. In his mind's eye he sees her again, a red-faced, bawling baby, running her mother ragged. A flame-haired, laughing child, shooting through the sitting-room and tumbling out into the garden at the speed of light, like a little tornado. "You never see Donna," he remembers her mother grumbling, as she stared at the demolished play-room, "but you know where she's _been_, alright." A stroppy, sulky teenager, prone to savage fits of temper. Wilf grins a little, as he adds sugar to his tea. _All those boys, when Donna was a teenager . . . she knew how to keep them in check alright! Poor buggers._ He suppresses a laugh, because it is after midnight and if he wakes up Sylvia there'll be hell to pay. _And she wonders where Donna gets that temper from . . . ._

Crossing to the sitting-room, he sighs. His Donna . . . she's certainly something. But these days, she resembles a live grenade more than ever. He only wishes it was her temper he had to fear. He'd take that any day, over the truth . . . . She can't remember. Not ever. Not even for an instant, because if she does . . . it'll destroy her. Some days, Wilf feels as if he's walking on eggshells, trying to keep her safe from herself. After all – he doesn't know the full extent of her adventures with the Doctor, so he doesn't know what might be a trigger. Any little thing might jog her memory, might bring the whole house of cards tumbling down . . . He shudders. _Not on my watch. _

She is asleep now, curled up on the sofa. The film she has been watching is long over, but the television screen flickers away anyway, lighting the gloom, and the canned laughter from one of her favourite sitcoms emerges in fits and starts. He smiles down at her, fondly. Television, of course, is turning out to be Wilf's biggest nemesis. It's hard enough keeping her away from science-fiction and spaceships, but even advertisements are a headache. Just last week, for instance, there was the one about child slavery. All those little children in Third World countries, exploited in carpet factories and sweatshops . . . the old Donna would have been as guilty as Wilf himself of turning a blind eye. But no. This time, she had stopped and gone quite pale, and all of a sudden made up her mind to donate a quarter of that week's wages to the children's aid charity in question. And over breakfast the next day, she had confided in her grandfather, in a half-guilty, half-confused tone, that she didn't even know _why _she'd done it. "I mean, what am I? Daft!" she'd laughed. Wilf looks down at her sleeping form now, and feels his heart swell with pride. She's far from daft, his Donna. There are people out there, right now, on planets circling distant stars, who are happy and free and _alive, _because of his Donna.

The next day, Wilf takes her out to lunch. He does that sometimes, whenever he is most reminded, because it doesn't seem right, somehow, that everything she did should be forgotten, even if she herself can't remember it. Donna goes along with it like a good girl, indulging her grandad's occasional flights of fancy. They are midway through desert when it happens. Donna is amusing him with an impression of her latest boss, when suddenly a man two tables over clutches at his chest and starts to gasp and choke, his face turning a ruddy, ominous shade of red. A heart attack. Wilf knows the signs. _Poor sod. _The majority of the restaurant's patrons leap to their feet as one, screaming for help. Donna is one of the first to leave her seat, though she knows as much First-Aid as the apple pie on her plate. And then it happens.

The blonde lass sitting with the unfortunate heart-attack victim is shaking him and screaming. "Oh my god, someone please help . . . I need a phone! Someone call a-"

His heart stops. Everything seems to have slowed down, like in the films. Slow motion, they call it. The woman calls out for help, frantic, and he knows the next word on her tongue will be 'doctor'. Donna freezes, and her eyes glaze over. She frowns a little, as the memory starts to fall into place, and he knows the next word will damn her.

"Medic!"

He realizes that the hoarse, crabbed voice which has shouted this one desperate word is his own. Twenty pairs of eyes swivel to face him, astonished, but he doesn't care for any of them. His eyes are locked on Donna's face, devouring every nuance of his grand-daughter's expression, hoping, _praying . . . _

And then a miracle happens. Her expression clears, and she closes her mouth and lets out a snort of laughter.

"_Medic?" _she scoffs. "What are you like, eh?"

And Wilf breathes again.


	5. Red

**A / N : Partly inspired by all the conspiracy theories about the Master's ring, and the Doctor's line in the Sound Of Drums - "he was always sort of . . . hypnotic." Also, warning - contains a reference to domestic abuse. Like it? Hate it? Let me know. **

**_Lucy Saxon_**

Red marked every momentous event in Lucy's new life.

Eighteen months before election day, Lucy stood in her back garden, watching the sun go down. The sky was orange streaked with pink and lavender, and the clouds that hung low on the horizon were red – blood red. These clouds were the last thing she remembered seeing, before the blue box came careening out of the sky and ploughed a four-foot furrow in her neatly manicured lawn. The door flew open as she stood there, rooted to the spot with shock, and a man tumbled out – a man dressed in queer, old-fashioned clothes – a white shirt with puffy, voluminous sleeves and an embroidered red silk waistcoat. Their eyes met, and Lucy's heart flipped. Then he fainted.

Later, Lucy sat by his bedside, watching him toss and turn, watching the odd, glowing orange mist that rose from his lips vanish into the air. The red line on the thermometer rose higher and higher, higher than she ever thought possible, and then she knew, really knew (as if the spaceship and the orange mist hadn't told her as much already) that he wasn't human. She watched him toss and turn in a strange sort of fever, ranting and raving about things she didn't understand. So many strange, strange words, and the only one she recognized was "doctor". Over and over again, "doctordoctordoctor . . ." Once, Lucy made the mistake of asking if she should fetch the doctor. His eyes flew open at that, and he seized her arm, squeezing tighter and tighter until she cried out in pain. "No Doctor," he ordered. "Do you understand? No doctor . . ." His eyes rolled shut and his grasp slackened, and Lucy raised her arm and saw five deep red marks there, in the shape of his fingers.

She was wearing red lipstick, the first time he kissed her. He watched her lips move as though fascinated, fixated, and she realized he wasn't even listening to her. Then he leaned forward without warning and kissed her, kissed her so hard he bruised her lips and stole the air from her lungs, and when he pulled away, her head spun and her heart hammered, and she tasted blood. Blood . . .

The first time Harry hit her, he told her he didn't mean it. An accident, he said. Didn't she know, after all, that she shouldn't provoke him? Didn't she _know _he had a temper? And Lucy wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him, so badly. So she made herself smile, and she nodded mutely at his words. But the bright blood splayed across her fingertips told a different story. It shone glistening scarlet, a red flag. A warning sign.

The first time he took her to Utopia, she came back trembling. She locked herself in the bathroom, while he laughed outside, and she shook so hard she thought she might fall apart, might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, unless she could find a way to hold herself together. She stumbled blindly to the sink, the stench of Utopia still clawing at her throat, and she thought she might be sick. Then she caught sight of her reflection, and she understood how seeing terrible things might cause a person to lose their mind. It seemed to her that Utopia – the screams and the furnaces, and the awful, awful _experiments – _had leeched all the life out of her. She looked in the mirror and she saw pale blonde hair, which had always been like that, but now everything else seemed to have turned pale too, to match. Her skin was greyish-white, and even the pigment seemed to have faded in her eyes. She was fading into nothingness . . .

The only colour in her reflection was in the puffy, tear-stained skin around her eyes – red-rimmed, ruby red . . . She clung to that small splash of colour as if it were a life-raft, staring at the _redredred _of it until she could look away again, safe in the knowledge that today, at least, she would not slip away. Not today . . .

But it happened anyway. Little by little, she began to lose her mind. She knew it was happening, but was powerless to stop it. She watched, unconnected and uncaring as an outsider, as it chipped away at her sanity, in broken fragments and in pieces, until there was almost nothing left. Did he notice? Did he care? Sometimes, she thought he might. Sometimes, his eyes lighted on her with more than their usual disregard. Sometimes, she thought she saw a spark of keen sharp interest flicker behind them, but found she couldn't think too much about it. She couldn't think too much about anything, anymore. What had happened to her? What had happened to her likes and dislikes, what had happened to thought and free will and _Lucy? _These thoughts arose unexpectedly one day. She couldn't think why. They stood on the deck – Harry and the Jones family and the Doctor in his wheelchair – and even this high up, she could smell the acrid stench of burning. It was like the furnaces of Utopia, except this time it seemed to come not from the factories a trillion years into the future but from four thin islands, far below them in the seething sea. Oh yes. That was it. The islands of Japan. Harry wanted them to watch as they burned. Millions of people, burning . . . The Jones girl, Tish, gave a strange, hitching sob, burying her face in her mother's shoulder. It was the word burning that did it, Lucy realized. It made her think of flames and _red, _and then, abruptly, she was herself again, thinking the sort of thoughts that usually escaped her, these days. What had happened to her? Why was she so . . . . Harry started suddenly, startling her. His gaze swivelled round to her, and he narrowed his eyes, frowning at her as if he had somehow heard her thoughts, and as if they bothered him. But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? Why would anything Lucy thought bother him? She considered this, turning the idea over and over in her mind, but Harry was still staring at her, and it was the oddest thing, but the more intense his stare became, the less she minded. She felt as if she were being swept away by an invisible, powerful current, and all the thoughts that had seemed so clear to her just moments ago were now trickling away, like water held in her hand. Until she was left with a blank, unquestioning mind, and just a hazy notion that it all had something to do with the colour red . . . .

The night before the launch, Harry was skittish and strange. Nervous, she supposed. He dwelled obsessively on the topic of Martha Jones, and on the Doctor. It was as if he thought the broken, defeated old man might even now pose some kind of threat.

"Oh, but he does. You don't know the Doctor as I do, you don't know what he's _like . . ._he never gives up, and it's got something to do with her, that Jones girl, Martha _Jones . ." _

He trailed off, muttering incoherent threats, vague tortures she had never heard of, _tissue compression _and _gamma radiation, _and she was so distracted by the strange scientific terms that she forgot to wonder how he had known to answer a question she had never asked aloud. He broke off, mid-rant, and stared at her. Then he smiled, and held out a hand, pulling her into an embrace, a parody of a loving husband consoling his frightened wife. He stroked her hair and wrapped one arm around her waist, his fingers tapping a familiar rhythm against the small of her back – a drumbeat, a restless _taptap taptap _- a double heartbeat. The beat became faster and faster and faster, and then, abruptly, he pushed her away. He turned and pulled something out of the wardrobe.

"Wear this," he said suddenly, pushing an item made of cool silk into her hands, "Tomorrow. Wear this."

She looked at the dress, but she couldn't seem to see its colour, because he was staring at her again, that intense, all-consuming stare he had that seemed to blot out everything else. His fingertips brushed against her temples, and his eyes bored into hers, and somehow, for the first time, she heard it too. The beat, the never-ending drumbeat . . . Lucy shivered.

What happened after that, she could never clearly recall. She seemed to enter a sort of dreamworld. A hazy sort of . . . hypnotism? Later on, much later, she would wonder if that was what it was. Hypnotism . . . perhaps. All Lucy remembered, really, was a sort of awakening, standing in the control room. Harry was handcuffed, and Francine Jones was pointing a gun at him, but no-one noticed Lucy. No-one noticed, when she woke up again, only to find herself covered in red. It was everywhere, on her dress and on her lips and on her fingernails . . . . and inside her head, so loud, so awful, so frenetically insistent . . . the sound of drums. There was a bang, and a sharp jarring pain in her arm, and she felt, somehow, that the two things were connected. But she couldn't think how. All she could think of was the colour red, and the drumbeat, getting louder and louder all the time . . . . . . . . . . .

Her fingers curled around the ring, pressing it tight against her palm, and finally – _finally – _the drums faded.

The sound she heard now, echoing in her head as she held the ring close to her, chipping away at the red polish on her fingernails and fighting tears, wasn't the drums. It was Harry's cold, triumphant laugh.


	6. Forgiveness

**A / N : The Master! At last! This one took the longest to write but I like it. And it's very long, but hey – the master is nine hundred years old, there's a lot to cover! Thanks to Tiff for the help with their childhood names. Also, I should probably mention that my knowledge of Doctor Who only extends to New Who – I've never seen the Classic Series, so if anything here is wrong, please tell me. It is mostly guesswork on my part. And it should become clear quite quickly, but for New Whovians like me - 'Koschei' is The Master and 'Theta' is The Doctor. Please let me know what you think, I'm a bit nervous about this one . . . **

**The Master**

Koschei is six years old, when he befriends Theta. No-one likes Theta. He's too quiet, and he has an unnerving way of staring at people, as if he's trying to read them. Koschei doesn't know, yet, that he himself has an equally unnerving stare. All he knows is that he's lonely. He hates the Academy, hates the stupid stuffieness of it all, and he wants to run away. He will never, _ever _admit this later on in life, but the first time Theta talks to him, he is crying. Huddled in a corner, crying his eyes out. He hears the soft approaching footsteps, though he doesn't look up. He hopes that whoever it is will simply take the hint and go away. But the bothersome person refuses to walk away, so he looks up, glowering at the other boy. "Go away," he growls. Theta, of course, doesn't budge. Later, he will learn that appearances can be deceptive, and that Theta, for all his quiet tolerence, is really just as stubborn as himself. But he doesn't know that yet, so it annoys him all the more when Theta refuses to obey him. He simply stands there, watching him with his head tilted to one side, as though trying to puzzle him out.

"Why are you crying?" he inquires. There is no judgement in his voice. Just curiosity.

They stare at each other for a long moment. "Because," Koschei says at last, "I hate it here." This is only part of the truth, but to Koschei "I'm lonely," sounds pathetic. Theta stares at him again. Then, to his surprise, the boy sits down beside him and begins to talk.

"I hate it too," he says. "It's _boring." _

Koschei can't help it. Theta says this with such cheerful certainty, which contrasts so starkly with his serious brown eyes, that he laughs. Later he will think, in some small part of his brain that won't _ever _let him voice the thought out loud, that it was worth it, just to see Theta's dazzling answering smile.

"I'm going to run away," Theta confides. "I'm going to be an _explorer." _

Koschei suddenly decides he likes Theta very much.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

He is nine, the first time Theta forgives him.

Everything has changed, and he knows why. It's the drums. He tries to live with it, he really does, but . . . it's driving him mad. Because it never stops. On and on and on and on, and he would do _anything _to make it stop. Sometimes, he feels like the drums are a curse, because they make him want to scream and scream, even though he knows he can't. But sometimes, he wonders if they're really trying to help him. Because there are times when they focus all his attention, narrow it down to one sharp point, and show him all the possibilities sparking off around it. The drums inspire all his best ideas.

Of course, the other children in the academy disagree with this. They don't like Koschei's ideas at all, but he doesn't particularly care. They don't matter. Stupid children. What do they know? These are Koschei's thoughts as he hides in the Academy lecture hall, watching moonlight cast silver shadows across the polished floorboards. He should be in his dormitory by now, of course, but it will take the stewards forever to find him. He grins. He knows who _will_ come to find him.

As if on cue, the door on the other side of the hall slowly opens, and a small figure steps tentatively inside. Hidden high in the observatory balcony, Koschei smothers a laugh and slides a little further forwards, relishing Theta's confusion. Theta's so _stupid _sometimes. It really is too easy to trick him.

The boy shivers. He obviously dislikes the cold, and the dark. He probably thinks the Toclafane are going to get him or something. Koschei rolls his eyes. The Toclafane. Yeah _right. _He can't help it – a laugh escapes him, and Theta jumps, staring round in confusion, as Kochei's laughter bounces off the walls.

"Kos-_chei," _he whines. "Where _are _you?"

Koschei laughs again. "_The-ta . ." _he calls, a perfectly pitched mimic. The echoes from Theta's name are splendid, so he repeats it, laughing fit to burst. His laughter is what gives him away of course. But once Theta has found him there's no point hiding – the game (_this _game, he should say) is over. So he shoots forward over the edge of the balcony, dropping neatly down in front of his friend.

"Boo!"

Theta looks suitably shocked, but his expression quickly becomes disgruntled. "You didn't have to do that," he mutters.

Koschei only shrugs. His friend can be so boring sometimes.

"I learnt something," he says, "Do you want to see?"

Theta stares at him for a long moment. "That depends on what it is," he replies, nervousness clear in his voice. "Tell me first."

Koschei scowls. "No," he says petulantly. That will spoil all his fun. He knows, however, that Theta will crumble, if he just has a little patience. Theta _hates _thinking anyone's smarter than him.

Sure enough, his friend gives in. "Alright," he says apprehensively. "Show me."

Koschei grins, delighted to have won. "You have to come closer," he orders. When Theta obliges, he puts his fingers carefully on his temples. "Look in my eyes," he says seriously.

"Now . . . I'm cleverer than you." He says this placidly. It isn't a question.

Theta frowns. "You're not . . ." he says obstinately, but the words emerge more slowly than usual, and require obvious effort.

Koshcei takes a deep breath, and listens to the drums. They tell him to be calm. They tell him to push the connection. So he does.

"I am," he says. His voices throbs slightly, a faint humming-bird flicker, and only a Time-Lord would detect it. "You _know_ I'm cleverer than you . . ." he insists.

Theta struggles for an instant, and then . . . he goes under. "If you say so," he says dully. Obediently. Total obedience . . .. Koschei lets out a triumphant burst of laughter, and breaks the connection.

Theta gasps. He stares at his friend in horror, as though he has never really seen him before. And then he does something which shocks Koschei – he _pushes _him. He is red-faced and his eyes are shining with tears, but he doesn't look upset. He looks _angry. _

Koschei laughs uneasily. He has the horrible feeling he may have pushed Theta too far, and he doesn't like it.

"I was only joking," he says, even though they both know he wasn't.

"Well it wasn't funny," Theta says shortly. And then, just like that, he turns to leave.

Somehow – he doesn't know why, exactly – Koschei hates the sight of him walking away. So he breaks his own cardinal rule, and says something he _knows _is pathetic.

"You can't walk away!" he blurts out. "That's not _fair!" _

Theta freezes. "What?" He turns around slowly, but Koschei is no longer watching him. He is staring at his shoes.

"It's not _fair," _he mutters, fighting tears. It's not fair of Theta, to say that he's his friend, and then walk away. Just like it's not fair that the drums chose him. It's all not fair . . .

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay," Theta whispers. "I forgive you."

And _that _Koschei cannot stand.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Theta betrays him twice over, in the space of a year. Years have passed since the hypnotism incident but he remembers wondering if this is Theta's revenge.

Theta's first betrayal comes at their naming. The _Doctor. _The man who makes people better. How sanctimonius is that? And then he has the gall to stare at Koschei, when he chooses the name The Master. _There's nothing wrong with that, _he thinks defensively. _It's a good name. An assertive name. _But he doesn't like the way Theta stares at him, after that. There is _judgement _in it. And pity.

Theta's second betrayal comes a few days later. He runs away.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Years pass. Half of them, he spends running away from the Doctor. The other half . . . well. As much as he hates to admit it – he is, after all, The _Master. _One day, he will be master of all, and the Doctor will be no-one_ - __**is**__ no-one, _he reminds himself - however. He has to admit, he expends far too much brainpower on scheming. He will do anything to draw the Doctor in, he delights in setting him traps. And when he has him . . . . it's ironic really. As soon as he has the Doctor at his mercy, he wishes he could send him away again. Not that he ever actually would, of course. He's not stupid, after all. You don't catch someone just to let them go again. That's not the _point. _

He swirls scotch in a glass, thinking about it. He has the Doctor now. At his mercy . . . and that's the problem. He should feel _pleased. _He has captured his greatest adversary, has aged him – he smirks – degraded him, diminished him . . . he has broken his hearts, and it still isn't _enough. _A year has passed, and The Master is starting to learn that the Doctor, curse him, is right. He has everything he ever wanted. And it means nothing.

He has triumphed over his worst enemy, but his paranoia won't let him relax. He surveys his dominion on earth, and finds it . . . lonely. He seems drawn to the Doctor like a magnet, unable to leave him alone. Every minute spent out of his presence is a minute he might spend plotting, after all.

He murders Jack Harkness, over and over again, but the novelty wears off quickly, leaving just the infuriating fact of the man's immortality, a secret neither he nor the Doctor will fully explain.

And then there is Lucy. He has broken her, too. Once again, the Doctor is right. Hypnotism – utter control – comes at a price. He has made Lucy his safeguard, and he has destroyed her in the process. He finds he can no longer stand how blank and empty she seems. But at the same time . . . her occasional moments of clarity terrify him. He can always overwhelm her, of course, but he no longer feels pleased about it. She shivers, thin and oddly fragile in his arms. She reminds him of a bird with broken wings. Irony, again. Flight, after all, was his last great gift to humanity (and the Doctor says he isn't good to them). So it is ironic, isn't it, that flight should be what he takes away from the only human he has ever really . . . . _No! _ He freezes, appalled. _That's _not right. That's absurd. He doesn't even -

There is a sound, a cry of pain, and he doesn't need to look at her to know what he has done.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Dying in the arms of the Doctor.

How about that? It seems appropriate, somehow. Of course, he isn't really dying – well, he bloody well _hopes _not – but still. The Doctor doesn't know that. The Doctor – the only Time Lord left, now. He thinks he's won. Well, he hasn't. He's just got the upper hand, for now. It's not over. Not by a long shot.

His last conscious thought is how ironic it is.

The first time he really saw Theta, he was crying.

The last time Theta sees him . . . .

_Look at that. I made you cry. _

"Look at that. I win."


End file.
